You Lie in Shadow
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: Some ghosts aren't content to lie in the shadows. Five years after the defeat of the Dark Lord, Hermione begins seeing visions of her old potions professor.


**Summary: Some ghosts aren't content to lie in the shadows. Five years after the defeat of the Dark Lord, Hermione begins seeing visions of her old potions professor. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and its characters in anyway. **

**It's been a while since I published. I usually churn out a ton over breaks, but inspiration has lately been lacking. I suddenly got into the Hermione/Snape combo (kinda surprised I enjoyed it), and this was the product of that interest. **

**Some credit goes to the Harry Potter Lexicon, without which this would be a less-interested, less-canon-filled story. If you've got a few hours to spare, go check it out. Even if you're not doing research, it's enjoyable to simply browse. **

XXXXXXXX

They had been, she concluded, naïve to ever think that the war would over simply because Tom Riddle was dead. The Dark Lord may have been conquered, but there were still many out there who supported his "noble" cause. The Order had found this out the hard way seven months after the Battle of Hogwarts, when what was described to the Muggle media as a bombing occurred in central London. Diagon Alley was still recovering, four years later. Thankfully, most of the retaliation against the Ministry was now reduced to spars in less public places. But the Death Eaters still somehow found ways to organize more grand-scale attacks. Such as the one she was currently engaged in.

Word of the ambush of the small wizarding community of High Hord's in the South East, near the coast, drew her and other Order members to the scene swiftly. What they had found was far from pretty – a town, burning. The Mark, blazing high in the sky. And more than a few hysterical towns people. They leapt into action, each hoping that this time, _this time, _they might actually nab the bastards behind this.

In this hope, Hermione had behaved rather foolishly. She went off on her own, tracking the hulking blonde form of Rowle, who lingered at the edge of the village, daring the Aurors and Order members with raised brows and twirling wand. In an unusual spark of impulse, Hermione answered his challenge. She had darted after, brandishing her wand with a fury.

He was more than ready for her.

Which was how she ended up flat on her back in some high grass near the beach, choking for breath against the bitterly cold night air as blood, sticky and black, seeped out from a collection of wounds upon her lower torso to soak into the sandy soil.

That was where the ghost – vision – dream – found her.

Her vision was hazy, but Hermione could make out a few distinct features – black hair, black clothes, and black eyes so sharp they nearly hurt to meet. At the moment, Hermione is dealing with enough pain that she feel compelled to look away. A hand touched her abdomen. She arched into it without thinking, hissing at the contact.

"You'd do well to hold still," a voice drawled. It was not a particularly pleasant voice in its tones, but there is a familiar silky quality. "Allow me to at least look, Granger."

She did. Complying is easier thought than done, however, and when the foreign fingers of her savior prodded lightly at the sliced skin, Hermione hissed again. He was given pause.

"What did you do, throw yourself directly in the line of fire? Were your eyes close? Rowle couldn't aim at the broadside of a barn, let alone cause this amount of damage. Foolish, impulsive Gryffindor –"

"Please," she managed, grasping the hand that hovers over her stomach. "Please, I –"

"Hush." With that, he pushed back the sleeve of his robes imperiously and begins chanting incantations. Almost instantaneously, the pain subsided Cool relief washed down her skin, sinking into her bones, banishing even those aches, bruises, and lacerations that came from earlier in the battle. Her flesh began to knit together rapidly, and from her shaky view, she could see pearly pink scars forming across her stomach and abdomen.

The hand returned to her skin, reassuring silently. Hermione blinked up thickly. Sleep now threatened to claim her.

"Why…you?" she asked sluggishly. It wasn't the first question she'd thought of, nor the most important. But it was the only one she could think to ask now. Because, if any one of her ghosts were to meet her now, on the battlefield, in the moments where she lingers between life and death, Severus Snape would surely not rank high on the list.

Ignoring her question, the hand moved to her head, supporting the back of her neck. A thumb stroked her dirt-stained cheek as his eyes – so brown they are very nearly black – gaze intently into her own.

"I know what you're thinking," he said quietly. "And you're not dying. Not at the moment, anyway."

"I –"

"Sleep, Hermione," he commanded, sounding, all at once, like her stern Potions professor, the once-Death Eater, and the man who hated Harry Potter.

And without further protest, she complied.

**XXXXXX**

"You were writhing, muttering. Must have been the fever…"

"Must have," she murmured, tugging at the frayed hem of the hospital sheets. St. Mungos always felt a little dreary – even when she wasn't there as a patient.

Ron claimed her hand, preventing her from picking at the stray threads. "You sounded mad. I thought maybe he'd cursed your head, or something, Hermione. Messed with your brain. You kept mouthing things without making a sound."

She smiled wearily. "I'm not mad, Ron. It was probably just a side effect from the incantation. You know, these things happen when you attempt them when you're practically delirious from blood loss."

The redhead paled the mention of blood. "It was bad, Hermione. Don't joke…"

She felt the stab of guilt at his pain. However, she could not bring herself to apologize. Instead, she squeezed his hand.

"I'm fine. Promise."

**XXXXX**

Except she wasn't fine, if the dreams were any indication. Though no longer bedridden, Hermione had been sternly lectured when she was deposited back at her flat. Harry and Ginny had let her know that under no circumstances was she going to leave her house until she was entirely stable. True, her wounds were occasionally reopening – her Healers hadn't found the right combination of potions and spells, leaving her with tender red stitches – and she was forced to drink a Blood Replenishing Potion nearly every twelve hours. Still, she insists on being useful, so they allow her to use her immense logic and reasoning skills to predict where the next strike may be. Still, even with this task set upon her, the young witch quickly grew board in her confinement. That's when the dreams begin.

Visions of the battlefield, the fallen of Hogwarts, filled her nights. The dreams are startling realistic. The taste of iron saturated her tongue as face after face is illuminated. Reminders of the losses of war. She wakes up with hands twisted into her sheets with tears mingling into her cold sweat. Her abdomen hurts every time, though her prodding hand returns free of blood.

Molly visited and subsequently commented on the dark circles beneath her eyes. "Poor dear," she clucked as she pushed teacups across Hermione's table.

"We all thought it was over," she sighed.

"It can never be so simple," Hermione agreed wearily.

Mrs. Weasley gives her Sleeping Draught. It helped for a few days. But only just. She was on-edge, sometimes waking more tired than she'd been upon initially falling asleep. And while she has no dreams, there is something always pushing at the boundary of her mind, as though she's forgotten something. A niggling feeling that irritates her waking hours.

Eventually Hermione gave in, forgoing all sleep and pain potions. While her cursed flesh whined under the strain, it turned out to be well worth the risk.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"You're being foolish, Miss Granger," a snide voice intoned.

Hermione whirled 'round, nearly stumbling as her legs twisted beneath her. She gasped at the pain in her abdomen, clutching at her stitches.

A sigh interrupted her shock. Severus Snape glared dagger at her from where he sat petulantly at the staff table. Hermione blinked up at the dais as her back made contact with Hufflepuff's table. She'd not anticipated seeing her Potions professor again. The castle, perhaps, Voldemort, or any of her other nightmares. Not a cranky old Slytherine.

"Don't just stand there blinking with your mouth open like a codfish."

She shook her head, straightening. "What else do you propose I do?"

He sneered, crossing his arms. As in life, he wore heavy ink-colored robes with massive sleeves and a strict cut. "I care not."

"My mind evidently is under the impression that you do," she replied coolly. "I don't know why else it would place me here. With you, of all people."

Incredulous, he snapped, "Do you make a point of being rude to all those you encounter? Particularly those who are recently departed? Be gone, foolish girl."

"I would if I know how. Why am I so foolish?" she inquired, head tilting. "Is there any one particular reason, or is this simply your standard sneering?"

"I should think it would be obvious. Your refusal to take medication is something many would think to call foolish."

Hermione was quiet. "I've had trouble lately. Sometimes I think the potions are dulling my senses. I'm sure you would know better than most." Her eyes rose from the floor to meet the Potion Master's. "Why you, Professor?"

He did not answer. Instead, he rose from the table, sweeping out of the hall. With a low yelp, Hermione flew after him, pushing aside the pain to follow him to the dungeons.

"I'm sorry if I'm bothering you, but I would really like to know," she huffed. "I mean, why would my subconscious choose you? Out there, when I was injured? Here, in my dreams? What does this mean?"

"Do you _ever," _he began through gritted teeth as her entered his supply closet. "Cease with the questions? I see that age has not tempered your urging to be an insufferable, loud, unrurly –"

"Know-it-all, yes, yes, I'm quiet familiar with your usual insults."

Sourly, he spun to face her. "Of course, Granger. Typical, really, for your memorize every word your teacher say by heart."

The young witch flinched. Carrying on regardless, she said quietly, "I just don't know what it means."

Snape seemed to be unsettled in his own harshness. "You and I both, Miss Granger." He made to turn, then paused, eyes widening by a fraction of an inch. "You need to wake. Your stitches -"

The hand that had been resting against her stomach suddenly felt warm. She pulled it away, finding the imprint of blood.

"Oh, no –" she whispered before waking up.

She cleaned herself, stopped the blood, and spelled a strength-biding onto her stitches. Grudgingly, she takes a pain potion and another for dreamless sleep. Somewhere around three in the morning she slouched back into bed, throwing up wards around her flat to ensure that no one would be intruding on her prior to nine a.m.

**XXXXXXXXX**

The pain wouldn't cease. Two more weeks pass, leaving Hermione persistently weak and irritable. Left to the mercy of her cursed wounds, she was not allowed back in the field nor work. Molly eventually managed to convince her to see a healer.

After removing her stitches, Pye frowned at her shiny pink scars. They looked like cracks in her skin – a ragged weaving stretched and angry flesh. He prods at them gently and casts a few diagnostic charms. Finally, the healer began to question Hermione.

"And it still hurts? Even a month later?"

She nodded. "Especially in the evening. I sometimes have to double my dose of pain reliever."

"That should not be," he murmured, running one finger over a shiny scar. "Not after all this time. They are cursed wounds – it isn't unusual for injuries to take time to heal, or for people to experience prolonged pain. But this sounds more severe than we are used to working with. Tell me, Miss Granger, have you attempted any of your own healing?"

"I –" She remembered Snape kneeling over her in the midst of battle, muttering incantations. _"But that was all in my mind." _She shook her head. "No. Nothing beyond the basics."

Pye frowned again. "We'll run some tests. After, though, it would be best to go home, get plenty of rest, take your potions, then come back in a few days."

Disheartened, she returned home. Harry and Ginny joined her for dinner – takeout, which felt heavy in her stomach. They did their best to distract her. She smiled with them, listened to stories from Ginny's latest match. Harry regales them with tales of life as an Auror. She does not have much to contribute, not even a cheerful disposition.

"Don't worry," Ginny whispered in her ear as they hugged goodbye. "You'll be back out there as soon."

Hermione offered her a weak smile. She wished she could believe her friends.

**XXXXXXXX**

She didn't take the sleeping potion that night – with Chinese in her, a potion notorious for creating a tender digestive system would likely give her a stomach ache. She slept easily enough, despite her dreams.

Snape met her again. This time her was in the Restricted Section, peering over some herbology titles. Hermione sighed at seeing him, pressing her too-hot forehead into the spines of a few nearby tomes. In response, Snape grunted.

"You again?"

Hermione was too tired to bicker. Instead, she scooted herself onto a nearby table, sighing.

"Kindly cease your huffing."

"Believe me, you're not my first choice of companionship either," she groused. "I must say, I am impressed with the authenticity of these dreams. It's almost organic, your grouchiness."

He didn't turn, but from his profile she could see his brows rising. "What makes you so sure these are dreams?"

She opened her mouth, then paused. "Because I am sleeping?" she suggested lamely.

The Potions Master snorts. "At least you're deductive," he murmured. "No, Miss Granger, I am afraid you're not quiet right this time."

"But these have to be dreams," she said. "I mean, it's simply impossible otherwise – given the circumstances – "

"What circumstances would those be, Miss Granger? I think we can both assume that these liaisons are less-than-normal."

"Well, um, you're…dead," the witch said quietly.

He does not respond for several long seconds. Then, shoving the book he'd been fingering back into its slot, he moves along the row swiftly, turning to the next title. "Yes," he agreed shortly. "I know."

"You do?"

He will not look at her. His eyes darted across the page of a sinister-looking burgundy (_"Bloody," _Hermione thought) novel, and he seemed less than half-invested in their interaction. "Is that so surprising? If you are correct, then I am simply a by-product of your own imagination. I would know all that you know." The book snapped shut. "But you are not correct."

"How do you know?" she asked, frustrated. "How could you possibly know?"

Finally, he turns to her. "I'm not dream, Miss Granger. A vision, perhaps, but I'm not speaking to you from your own mind. I am, at this time, an autonomous being. I know this because you're irritating me just as much as I am irritating you. We're not coming from the same place."

As vague as his statement is, Hermione accepted it. His words felt strangely right. Accurate.

"Fair enough," she said. "But that still doesn't answer why. Why you? We didn't even like each other!"

"True," he replied mildly. "But I should hardly think _'like' _has anything to do with the matter."

She woke before he could clarify.

"You healed me," she announced the next night. Once again, she didn't take the sleeping potion. She wanted to finish their conversation and knew if she did not confront him now, she may not have the heart to later.

He was brewing. With a sneer he answered. "Yes, very observant."

"Why?"

"I should think it would be obvious," the elder wizard drawled. "You were dying. Severe blood loss tends to do that to a person, you known."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, but how did you even manage…I mean, you're dead. You no longer exist on this plane." Abruptly, she frowned. "Is this the afterlife? An empty Hogwarts."

"Perhaps."

Seeing as he was not being forthcoming, Hermione neared, hovering over the bubbling caldron. "What are you brewing?"

"A modified Pepper-Up potion to awaken my dead body," he replied dryly. "Clearly."

"Lovely." She was quiet for a moment. "But really. Why? Why you? It could have been Dumbledore or Lupin or anyone, but you…don't make sense. And if I'm having hallucination, my mind isn't making any sense. I mean, I didn't _hate _you, but we were far from friends."

This seems to interest him. "You didn't hate me?" Snape sneered, but there was little venom behind it.

"No," the witch admitted. "Dislike, of course, but I could hardly hate you. I'm not nearly as irrational as Ron and Harry, you know."

"Dunderheads."

"They are my friends."

"Precisely."

She nudged his shoulders when his lips curl into smirk, and pretended not to notice him freeze at the contact.

**XXXXXXXX**

Healer Pye was grave. The examination was endured with Hermione staring blandly up at the white speckled ceiling and the healer running diagnostic spell over her with a furrowed brow. She asked no questions, patiently waiting, though she was tense knowing that something wasn't right.

"Have you been taking your potions, Hermione?"

"Yes," she replied. "Except, sometimes, the sleeping potions. But everything else, always."

His frown deepened, etching foreboding lines into his kind face. "You're not healing. Not the way they should be. Whatever Rowle hit you with…Hermione, it's not normal. I mean, technically no curse is. But your wounds are bad. Whatever he used, it isn't something we are familiar with."

There was a weighty pause. Finally, she managed, "What are you saying?"

The healer sighed. He seemed to be unable to form words for several long seconds before sighing again. "It means, Hermione, we can only help you to a certain extent. The curse in your body…it is beyond our means to heal. I am so sorry."

"So, what?" Her eyes widened frantically. "I'm just going to live like this? In pain?"

Pye hesitated. She quickly understood.

"No, I won't live at all," she said quietly.

**XXXXXXXX**

People came in droves. Molly Weasley brought casseroles. Ron stared into space whenever he visited, like he was so overcome by sorrow he could hardly look at her. Ginny held her hand a lot, as did Harry, who seemed to prefer sitting with her quietly. Others acted both as though nothing had changed and yet everything had – like she was delicate suddenly. No one seemed to want to talk about the elephant in the room. Her impending doom was regarded like something far-off. To Hermione, it was anything but.

She stopped most potions altogether. Little changed in her day-to-day – twinges of pain were more frequent, sleep could be difficult to find, but she felt less groggy. But maybe that was just the sense of her approaching death.

Two weeks passed before Severus Snape passes through her dreams again. He's in the courtyard, sitting on a bench with a book in his hands. Normally, she'd happily join him. Today, however, she was fuming. Marching across the flagstones, she glared.

"Miss Granger," he murmured, glancing up only briefly. "It has been sometime –"

"You _bastard," _she hissed, shoving his shoulder. "What have you done to me?"

Snape blinked up. "What?"

Her eyes stung with tears. "That incantation-thing you did after Rowle attacked me. What did it do?"

For a full minute he stared at the young witch before rising swiftly, bearing down upon her with a sneer. "In case you forgot, Miss Granger, I _saved_ your stupid arse."

She shook her head fiercely, tears streaming down flushed cheeks. "Then why is this happening?" she asked miserably.

"Did the healers not tell you?" He shook his head. "I know you are a unique case, but I had believed they would discover the cause of your malady eventually. Rowle's curse was experimental. Something that was made to be difficult to heal. The man is a buffoon, but he has enough active brain cells to know that if you modify an already difficult to heal, it quickly become impossible to heal."

"I know. They told me it wasn't – that they couldn't –" She could not go on. Hermione hugged her waist, breathing deeply. Snape still loomed above, frozen, unable to handle a crying young woman. Under different circumstances, she could have laughed at the helpless and frustrated expression on the Potion Master's face.

"I'm dying," Hermione finally choked. "They could tell me that. There is nothing they could do."

Snape bowed his head, a curtain of dark hair falling forward to hide his face. "They can surely prolong –"

"Only a little."

"I did my best," he said after a moment of reflection. "On the beach. I tried to stop what I could. Had I not, you wouldn't have lasted this long."

"So that was you." The witch gave him a watery smile. "You saved me, and you gave me more time."

"As much as I could."

"But _why?"_

He was grim. "I cannot say. I merely found myself suddenly at the beach that day. What I saw before me was a determined young witch pursuing a Death Eater, alone. You fell. He cursed you. I could not simply stand by."

"Thank you."

"Anyone would have done the same," he replied, clearly uncomfortable. Hermione was not so merciful to let him go without an abrupt hug. He was stiff in her arms, unsure of how to react. Nose pressed into his frockcoat front, she felt the dam break and tear resurfaced. After discerning what she was doing, the elder wizard awkwardly patted her back.

"I'm so scared," she whispered.

His arms tightened in response. It surprised her – she'd thought he would recoil in abject horror. But he was comforting her with little hesitation, even stroking her spine gently, another hand running through her hair in a semi-soothing-painful manner. She breathed deeply, relaxing more than she had in weeks.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

No one spoke of her illness. The Christmas dinner table was all lightness and bright. There was a rumble of conversation, cheers when Molly brought the goose out, ooh and ahhs over the puddings and tarts. Percy, in a rare show of lightheartedness, shared a cracker with her. He graciously let her take the tiara while Teddy scooped up the glitter, throwing it up in the air with a cry. She scooped the toddler up into her lap for kiss, press her lips into his glowing baby cheeks.

The gifts were the biggest indicator of her friends sorry. Neville gave her a peace lily, everyone else the usual books – thin ones. The Weasley passed along their usual jumper. It was a cheery yellow – almost forcefully happy. She wondered if there was a cheering charm placed upon it.

The holiday ended with her sleepily stretched out before the fire, nursing a cup of coco drowning in marshmallows, her head on Ron's shoulder, a hand locked with George's, Harry and Ginny sitting on the ground below her, heads against her knees. She fell asleep to the sound of Celestina Warbeck crooning on the radio, faint smile on lips.

**XXXXXXXX**

She didn't leave work until she is forced. It was Kingsley, who did not even work in her department, who convinced her. He appeared at her desk one day with a cardboard cup of tea and a concerned expression. She invited him to sit, already dreading the conversation.

"You cannot go on like this," he started slowly. "You're too tired, Hermione."

"I'm fine," she answered shortly.

He glanced at her trembling fingers. "I know you wish to be but that simply is not true. You are in too much pain. Please. The time you have left…use it. Don't linger, working here. Go visit your family. Travel. Try to make the perfect tart, I don't care, just don't stay here."

"I like my work."

"You should be with family. I could make them fire you," he warned. "Or suspend you."

Her smile was bitter. "And then what? I'd be left alone at my flat all the time, with my cat. Leave me be, Kingsley. I'm fine."

Eventually, they settled on a reduced schedule. Hermione sank further into her chair when he left, waving her wand to close the office's door firmly behind him. She shook with pent-up pain, aches she let no one see. With a breath, she closed her eyes and let sensation take her.

**XXXXXXXXX**

Severus was silent as she slipped into the dungeon. He did not question her presence through a combination of focus being given to his cauldron and a delicate empathy he so rarely displayed. Hermione pulled up a stool and sat, blindly staring at the bubbling concoction he was stirring. The silence lingers for several moments before she speaks.

"I'm getting more and more tired."

"Take a revitalizing booster."

She shuddered. "It tastes like peppery orange juice."

"A small price for energy."

Hermione was quiet. "I wonder how much I shall have to pay, in the end, for a comfortable death."

The Potions Master turns away, grimacing. "We all pay something, in the end."

The memory of his sorrow and sacrifice stills her, and Hermione suddenly felt quite guilty. She was, after all, still living. She had not died at the hands of the Dark Lord for the sake of a boy she loathed and an all-powerful wand.

"I'm sorry," she said abruptly. "I should –"

He waved her off. "Please, spare me your pity. I have found death rather peaceful. I have few regrets."

"Do you really?"

"As many as any man in my position could have."

That did not sound like any small number to the witch, but she held her tongue.

"What are you making?"

Snape gestured to the text resting on the table near the potion. It was stained with sinister-looking fluids – dark browns and greens. Hermione had never been too squeamish for any book, so she scooted closer, pulling the tome onto her lap where it rested on her knees. The tiny-scripted, hand-illuminated pages soon had her engrossed, and many hours passed before she let the Potions Master in peace.

**XXXXXXXX**

Ginny's pregnancy came as a happy surprise and a merciless blow. While the women squealed in excitement, bounding up and down happily, chatted about names and nurseries, a thought was ever-present in the back of Hermione's mind.

She would not get to watch the child grow. The baby would hear stories of Aunt Hermione, read stories of her adventures with Ron and Harry, likely see the memorials throughout the wizarding world. But she would not get to see the little one off on the Hogwarts Express. She would not attend the child's baptism, graduation, birthday parties….

She might not even see the baby born.

These terrible, sad thoughts curled up in Hermione, resting in her weak heart as she smiled widely, clutched Ginny's hands, laughed and listened. It was only later, when she was alone, that she wept. Wept for herself, the life she was missing, and for the children she would never have.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

The pain begins to follow her in her dreams. Her last escape was cruelly snatched from her sometime in May. It was on a walk with Severus, alongside the lake, that she was overtaken. With a gasp, her knees buckled and she sank to the grass. Snape, brow furrowed in worry, knelt over her until the episode passed.

"What is it?" he asked. Frantic desperation colored his tone. "What ails you?"

"My stomach," she gasped. Fingers curl to fists as another wave crashes over her. "It's n-n-normal."

"This is normal?"

"J-j-just give me a moment."

The pain faded. Snape helped her to her feet.

"I've never had this happen in a dream before," she murmured, straightening her robes.

"You're getting worse."

The witch closed her eyes. "I suppose."

"What are you doing? What medicines and spell are you performing? Surely there is something –"

"Nothing." She shrugged. "Occasional sleeping potion, but otherwise…nothing. There is nothing that helps, nothing that can be done. I'm past the point of aid."

"But not comfort," he said sharply. "You can still make yourself comfortable, Hermione. There is no shame in taking pain potions."

She opened her eyes, taking in the sparkle of the water of the lake. She's never seen a squid here. In fact, she had only seen the Potions Master. It was strange. Was he always here alone? Was she the only company he had – and then, only on occasion? Is this what death would be like? Isolated? She would go mad. There was, true, a certain peace in being alone. Yet, to spend eternity by one's self….

"I know. I just…."

Hermione could not put it into words. Her reluctance was no simple matter of pride. There simply seemed to be no point. Her end was neigh. May as well allow herself to feel it.

Snape sighed. "I won't pretend to understand. You're being foolish."

The witch did not answer. She hugged her arms around herself and stared out at the water. Severus was content to stand beside her in quiet companionship. That was one thing she (surprisingly) enjoyed in spending time with her former professor. He did not seem to desire to fill the silence with incessant chatter. Neither of them had the patients anymore.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

The time came when she could no longer leave her house. Then, slowly, her bed. Visitors came every day, sometimes multiple times a day. There was a tower of book on her beside table. Her parents dropped off a television Mr. Weasley modified for wizarding use. Andromeda takes to dropping by with Teddy. His bright little spirit was a welcome distraction. Luna brought by copies of the _Quibbler _before they are sent off to print so she could edit them. Yet still, she was bored out of her mind.

Ron stopped by to hold her hand a lot. The other Weasleys were a near-constant presences, Harry and Ginny included. She tried to give them all a brave face, sincere smiles. But the effort wears on her swiftly, and she becomes irritable. Soon, she was apologizing nearly every time someone returned for a visit. Of course, she was always forgiven. It wasn't as though they could deny a dying girl.

Pye made house calls nearly every week. He expressed surprise at her general health – she was still faring far better than expected. Upon finding out she has no used pain potions or spells in months, he sternly told her under no circumstances would she continue to be in his care if she didn't start taking them regularly.

"Ah, fine," she groused. "If that's what it takes."

He shook his head. "I truly do not understand you. Considering the amount of pain you must be enduring, how you've gone this long without I cannot fathom."

"She's a fighter," Ron blurted out beside her.

She patted his hands with a gentle smile before turning back to Pye. "I will start on the potions. Will that do?"

The healer nodded. "It shall. It will not prolong your life, but it shall make you more comfortable."

His words echoed Severus's. She squeezed Ron's hand at the thought. Severus was a bit of a secret. She had told no one, not even the healer. He felt like something private and scary and too strange for her to share. They would suspect her mind is fail her, that she is losing it. Hermione could never bear that. Her mind has always been her greatest attribute.

Pye left with a sad smile. Ron made them lunch – some rather humble sandwiches and crisps – kissed her brow, then departed. His expression was the same as everyone who left her flat – one that seemed to ask, _"Will this be the last goodbye?"_

**XXXXXXXXXXXXX**

The final good day came and went, and nothing but bad ones resumed. Soon she could barely leave her bed without help. She needed someone with her all the time. Hermione loathed her new dependence. Her days turned into blurs of reading and naps. Even books lost their luster, however. Sleep held far more appeal.

In her dreams, she could still walk. The pain was duller, kinder. And Severus did not treat her as though the Grim was hovering over her shoulder.

They explored the forest and the lake. He took her into the Restricted Section of the Library, leaving her to spend hours browsing. They examined the portraits, the Headmaster's office, and common rooms. She lived for those hours when she could slip away into his world, his death, so that she might take some time to avoid thinking about her own.

"What's happening out there?" he asked her one day cautiously.

"I cannot walk anymore. They've given me a nurse. It's just a matter of time, now, really."

"It always comes down to time. Whether people realize it or not."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Is it –" Hermione hesitated. "Severus. Dying. Does it…feel bad?"

"Hurt?" He met her eyes. "No, Hermione. It's just like falling asleep."

She half-suspected he was lying to make her feel better. But she didn't want think about it much.

Turning back to the shelf of books, she inhaled deeply. Severus claimed her hand and squeezed tightly, passing along an unspoken support. Hermione squeezed back, ignoring the numb sensation in her fingertips in favor of the encouragement.

**XXXXXXXXXXXX**

They shuffled around her bed, silent and mournful. Ron and Harry sat on one side, her parents the other, each clutching a frail hand. Tear silently streamed down the cheeks of all, the dying witch included. A nurse stood silently in the corner, appropriately apart from the group.

"It shouldn't be like this," someone murmured. "The war ended –"

They trailed off. From the bed, Hermione smiled weakly. "It's a little funny, right?"

Her toes curled in pain. Another wave hit her, the curse too eager to remind her that it still remained. _"And I shall be the end of you." _With this latest episode her body shuddered. Molly cried out, Ginny and Fred looked like they were holding back sobs, and Neville squeezed one of her bedposts so tightly there was a crack of tension. Her mother bit her lip. Her father stared at their joined hands blankly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the boys that flanked her. "I was stupid. If I hadn't gone off –"

"No, Hermione," Ron said, voice shaky. "No, no, you're never stupid."

Harry was silent, tears slipping down his cheeks. His hand tightened on hers. Poor Harry – his life had been tainted with death at such a young age, she hated to give him more. At the very least, she'd hung on long enough to say her goodbyes. Nearly everyone else had left so quickly.

"Hermione –"

"I love all of you." Her voice was a rasp now. Unpleasant. She sunk further into the pillows. "So much."

She would not speak again. It hurt too much. The pain rose to her throat, then her mouth and eyes. She could not see. She felt them around her, but her sight had faded. Panic flooded her remaining senses.

Her name surrounded her. "Hermione," voices cried, both familiar and lost to her. "Hermione, please –"

Another swift strike of pain, the echoes of her name, and she knew no more.

**X**

**XX**

**XXX**

**XXXX**

**XXXXX**

**XXXXXX**

"Back so soon?"

Hermione shifted from where she lay, then blinked blearily. She recognized the staff's lounge, where Severus preferred to read in the evenings. Sitting up, the witch recognized the sofa she lay on. Propped on her elbows, she frowned.

"I –" She couldn't speak. "_What am I doing here?"_

"Hermione?" The Potions Master frowned. "Are you alright? You've only been gone a few hours. I don't know how time works there –"

"I'm dead," she whispered. "It happened. I – I'm dead."

Snape froze. He seemed to pale, waxy skin appearing even more sickly than usual. "That cannot be. You're here. You likely just fell asleep, you silly girl, you're fine. You cannot be here."

"No. I died. Everyone was around me. It hurt so much. Then everything went dark…then bright…"

"You cannot be here," he repeated blankly.

"But I am."

"How?"

"You think I know?" She was snide. Her tone surprised him so much he laughed. It was not a bad sound.

"But why?" he asked softly.

The witch considered this. "I…don't know," she replied slowly. "But, somehow, I'm beginning to think…it doesn't matter."

Severus appeared confused, so she added, a little wryly, "I don't think I mind much. Do you?"

"No," the elder wizard answered. "No, I should rather think I do not."

Despite the sorrow of the day, despite her stress and shock, Hermione smiled.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

**I don't think this falls under Hermione/Snape, but meh. Also, not many questions are cleared up – apologies. Hopefully you enjoyed this piece. It was fun to write.**

**Please review!**


End file.
